


to the lost

by janie_tangerine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post-World War I, Prohibition, Scars, Violence, mentions of past suicidal thoughs, permanent disfigurement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the first round of <a href="http://http://dc-dystopia.livejournal.com/">dc_dystopia</a> on LJ.</p><p>1921: Dean Winchester and Castiel Milton are two WWI veterans meeting by chance at a hospital. Dean, works for an alcohol smuggler for whom he does small/dirty business. After Castiel helps Dean with his current assignment, he ends up working alongside him for good. Neither of them is completely fine with it but when the only thing you're trained to do is kill people, there's not much of a choice. <i>Boardwalk Empire</i> inspired AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the lost

**Author's Note:**

> This was specifically based on the Jimmy Darmody/Richard Harrow storyline on BE, mostly on some S1 material, but I haven't used other plot elements from the show beyond some details after the first meeting. The title is from a Boardwalk Empire ep. Art for it is [here](http://gassadaa.livejournal.com/2626.html); a second art masterpost to be added asap.

His knee hurts.

If only it was the only thing that did.

Whenever Dean tries to get into the mindset that he should consider himself lucky that it was the only major injury he came back home with, it never lasts much. He isn’t delusional enough to kid himself into really believing it.

He closes his fingers in a fist, opens it, closes it again, pushes nails into skin hard enough to draw blood.

 _You’re in Atlantic City_ , he thinks. _You’re in Atlantic City, because you work for an asshole who sends you to do his dirty job because you’re expendable, and you had no other choice. But that’s it. You’re not there. You’re not there anymore. No France. No England. Just plain old New Jersey._

He breathes, once, twice, trying to get a hold of himself, and then he stands up from his table and asks the bartender where the phone is. The bartender nods toward the left side of the room. There’s a small booth, all right, in a dark corner.

Good.

Dean gets inside it, grabs a few coins, dials the Kansas City number.

Crowley’s not going to be happy about any of this. Dean wishes he could just avoid working for that bastard overall, but when you’re back from a war, you can’t be picky about who wants to hire you, even if it’s some crook from damn Edinburgh who has decided that he has to make his fortune in the New World selling smuggled alcohol without getting his hands dirty. 

The phone rings twice. “Yes?” Crowley asks in that business voice of his that makes Dean’s skin crawl.

“Winchester. This isn’t working.”

“What exactly do you mean with _this isn’t working_?”

“I mean that Walker’s not going to make a deal with _you_. He says he doesn’t work with fucking foreigners. I’ve managed to land a meeting with some other crook who works with him the day after tomorrow to try and see if they’ll change their mind, but that doesn’t look like it’ll go well.”

“Raise the bloody offer,” Crowley replies, nonplussed. “I’ve already told you that you could.”

“Thank you, I already have and it’s double of what the guy he’s workin’ with right now pays him, but he says it ain’t a money problem.”

“Winchester, I need what he sells. I don’t care what you do in order to get it, but _do it_. I don’t pay you for fucking up. Oh, and go take that sodding test one of these days, I can’t be arsed to hear my partners bitching because I hired someone who wasn’t evaluated for taking care of important work.”

Then he slams the receiver and Dean groans, wishing he could just quit it.

Sure, as if he can afford it. Crowley is paying for Sam’s tuition in Stanford (the money Dean earned while in the army wasn’t going to cover it all), so Dean can’t exactly tell him to go fuck himself. At least for the next two years. And he has to give Lisa something as well, he owes her even if she says that he doesn’t.

He also can’t afford to lose his job because Gordon Walker doesn’t sell to anyone who wasn’t born in the good old US. Dean wouldn’t give a shit about it most days, but if he doesn’t manage to convince Walker some way before the end of the week he’s fucked.

He sighs, limping out of the booth and the bar. There’s a military hospital not far from the place he’s staying at – he could take that stupid psychological evaluation test that Crowley’s business partners are so hot about. Dean isn’t hot about it at all – the last thing he needs is some stupid doctor who’s never been in a trench and never had to kill anyone to determine whether he’s fit for society or not – but apparently said partners are _concerned_ about him going off the rails.

As if he doesn’t get his hands dirty for their own benefit while they enjoy their money, Dean thinks bitterly. At least Sam doesn’t know where the money comes from. Dean hopes he can conceal it for a while longer. Until he graduates, possibly.

Damn, he needs a drink or a thousand. When he was ten, he had entirely different plans. He had wanted to be a policeman. He liked the idea of bringing people to justice.

He wants to laugh at the irony of it all, since right now he works for the opposite side, but when he was told that he could earn enough enrolling, no one had told him that the second it was over, killing people would be his only marketable skill.

\--

He signs himself for the test as soon as he walks through the hospital gates. He doesn’t want to do it, but then again he only has to answer a few questions and people will stop harassing him when he’s back in Kansas; he might as well get done with it. At worst, he can lie.

He’s told to go to the second floor. His knee starts hurting more.

He stops on the stairs, breathes in, breathes out, breathes in again, curling his hand in a fist a second time, nails almost breaking the skin. He’s smelling dirty earth and feeling cold wind on his face, and it takes him a minute to snap out of it.

Obviously it has to happen when people have to write on a piece of paper that he’s a fully functioning human being.

What do they know. He shakes his head when for a second he smells gunfire; thankfully it’s gone just after.

He drags himself to the second floor and sits on the first bench he sees. He has a small book in his coat’s pocket, he bought it before leaving Kansas City and has barely looked at the title.

Could be a distraction.

He takes it out, reads the title again. _The Tin Solder and Other Stories_. Why the hell has he bought a fairytales book? He probably mistook it for something else. He isn’t even sure he wants to start it at all.

Then he raises his head and looks at the others waiting along with him. A nurse calls for _Denver, Edward_ and a thirty-year old missing his left hand stands up and follows her into an office.

There are another five or six people. All his age or younger. None of them is particularly remarkable, though, or at least that’s what he thinks until he turns his head to his left and sees the man sitting in the bench next to his.

\--

He sees the profile only, but it’s almost breathtaking. The man has a lovely shaped nose, pale skin, full pink lips, unruly brown hair that he can’t seem to comb as he runs a hand with long, elegant fingers through it. The eye that Dean can see is wide, of a lovely shade of blue that reminds Dean of the color of the sea between Dover and Calais in the early morning (one of the few beautiful things he has seen in Europe). The man is holding a bundle on his knees that he must have just taken out of the bag at his feet, and he’s also holding something else in his left hand that Dean can’t see; he’s wearing an old, tan coat that is maybe a bit too large for him.

 _Jesus_ , Dean thinks, _that one really has the face of an angel_.

And then the man turns slightly towards him and Dean stops breathing.

The right half of his face is nothing short of beautiful, but the left – _fuck_. His eye is missing completely, just an empty socket. One third of that lovely mouth is slightly twisted downwards, while his cheek is all raw, scarred flesh. The skin on the side of his nose is slowly re-growing, but it’ll take years before it’s done. _Damn_ , Dean thinks, _it probably hurts like hell whenever he has to talk_. He has a few ideas of what could have happened. And there’s that lone, bright blue eye fixed on him. The entire look the man is giving him is saying _I know you want to look away_ , and that’s probably why Dean _doesn’t_. He holds that stare for some ten seconds, and then the man’s left hand appears from his side and puts a tin mask over the ruined side of his face.

Dean suspects that it can’t be exactly pleasurable, but still doesn’t say anything. It’s painted, or at least it was in the beginning since now it’s faded, but it gives at least an impression of pink skin. The glass blue eye is slightly creepy, fixed and staring at nothing, and Dean almost says _just take it off again_.

He ponders the situation for a second. Should he introduce himself? Should he just leave the guy alone? His gut says _introduce yourself_.

Considering that he came back from the war alive because he always used to follow his gut, he stands up and goes sitting on mystery man’s right side.

“Hi,” he says. “Dean Winchester.” He extends a hand, and the man’s real eye widens for a second before he slowly, cautiously shakes Dean’s hand.

“Castiel Milton,” he replies. His voice is raw, much lower than Dean’s, and there’s a slight rasp to his words. No wonder, Dean thinks. If whatever happened to him blew half of his face off, it probably damaged the vocal chords. Not to mention that the way his mouth is twisted, it’s probably plain painful to open it. “I suppose… I suppose you’re curious about this.”

He raises one hand, pointing at the mask.

“What about it?”

“I looked in the wrong place,” Castiel says. “At least I turned on my side fast enough. What about your leg?”

“My – my leg?”

“You were limping when you came into the room.”

“Oh. German bullet. It – it just hurts from time to time. But I was lucky. It was just that.”

The part of Castiel’s mouth that isn’t covered by the mask curls up in a sad, sad smile. “No, it was not. It can’t be. Not if you’re here, anyway.”

 _He’s got a point_.

“Well, I didn’t even wanna do it. It’s my… uh. My boss. He insisted.”

“What a chance. It’s the third time I do it. Hopefully to find a boss.”

“How so?”

Castiel looks surprised, as if he can’t quite get why Dean hasn’t left already.

The nurse calls for some _Ellroy, Mark_.

“I was twenty-three when I was drafted three years ago,” Castiel replies. “When I came back, I was like _this_. The only thing – the only thing I know how to do well is killing people. Without even that test, who will have me?”

“Good point. Well, how’s it? Never did it before, might as well brace myself.”

Castiel takes a couple deep breaths, his hand curling around the bundle on his legs. Dean has an idea of what it might be.

“Humiliating. They ask you… all kinds of questions. What do you dream of at night. What you remember from the war. If your body… malfunctions. If you have ever been with a woman.”

The last part sounds particularly bitter and Dean is momentarily taken aback.

“Woah. You – uh, haven’t?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I have lived with my family in a small village for my entire life. Before they drafted me, of course. And my family is… very strict, in that sense. I left before it could happen. And when I came back, I did not have a line of girls wishing I would court them outside my door, as I am sure you can imagine. I ended up leaving because they couldn’t look at me in the face. When… hm, when do you think it would have happened?”

His voice sounds downright scornful, and Dean can only get it. Shit, he thinks, this sounds worse than he had thought.

“Well, you don’t wanna answer, just lie to them.”

Castiel tilts his head slightly, his good eye unblinking. “Lying never came easy to me. It isn’t any easier now.”

“Hey, lying is the best way to become president. You should re-evaluate it.”

Castiel looks as if he’s about to answer, but then the nurse comes outside and calls for _Milton, Castiel_. Castiel is about to stand up, but there’s a moment, right then, when Dean acts without his brain’s permission. He wraps a hand around Castiel’s arm, pushing it down.

“Sorry,” he says, “left a bit ago.”

“All right,” she replies. “Winchester, Dean?”

“I think you should practice,” Dean whispers, not knowing why is he even doing this. Castiel stares at him one second.

“He left, too,” he says then. His voice is flat enough that you couldn’t hear any hint of lying in it.

“That wasn’t bad at all.”

“Woolcott, Henry?” the nurse calls, and Dean turns towards Castiel again. He’s looking at him with that wide eye again.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, barely audible.

“They don’t get it,” Dean replies. “And I’m not sure that either of us needs some more humiliation on top of all the crap goin’ on with the both of us. Am I wrong?”

Castiel shakes his head. It isn’t everything, or at least he thinks so, but Dean isn’t sure that he can quite name what’s going on in his head himself.

“And by the way, what d’you have in there? I think I know, but… I’m just curious.”

Castiel doesn’t answer directly, but he slowly unwraps the cloth covering whatever is on his legs.

Dean recognizes a sniper rifle at once. It’s not built, which is why it takes up a small enough space to fit comfortably inside a bag, and from a small inscription on the handle, Dean thinks he also knows where Castiel might have got it.

“Woah,” Dean whistles. “That’s _good_. German?”

“It’s the only valuable thing I own. I try to always bring it along with me.”

“So, you were a sniper?”

“Not what you would call the most appreciated job, but yes. I still can use it, missing eye or not. What about you?”

“Regular infantry. Trenches, dirt, killing people face to face and all that. Not that I envy you. But I don’t envy myself either. I get it though – heck, it’s not as if I work honest jobs. They only taught me how to fucking kill as well.” His voice is softer than usual, maybe because he doesn’t want to be heard. Castiel nods, as if he perfectly understands what’s going on, and doesn’t he?

Dean suddenly has an idea.

“Hey, uh, I – see, my boss. He isn’t from here, he’s in Kansas, but… let’s say that he has a big business. He’s mostly into alcohol at the moment, but he also is… into some other things. When he sent me here, he told me to get myself a room at one of his… establishments. Which is actually a goddamn whorehouse, but at least it’s a comfortable bed. Uh, I know that it’s probably not ideal, but… if you want to come along with, I think that –”

Castiel holds up a hand, shakes his head with another small, sad smile that makes the entire left side of his face look incredibly expressive in comparison to the tin mask.

“I’m afraid that I don’t have enough to pay someone that would ignore _this_.”

“What if it’s on me?”

“Why would you even do it?”

Dean shrugs, wondering if he can find some answer that doesn’t sound completely stupid and that also sounds sincere.

He settles for the truth. “Fuck knows why, but I think I like you. Why the hell not? I’ve got a business meeting in two days, but it’s not as if I’ve got anything to do until then. And you’re the first person in this stupid city with whom I could talk without getting a headache.”

Castiel gives him another soft, barely there nod, and Dean thinks, _no one should look that happy because someone offered to pay a whore for them_.

That stupid war really, really has fucked up everyone that actually fought it.

\--

“What kind of den of iniquity is this?” Castiel mutters as he stares down at the beer Dean brought back at their table. Dean’s first instinct is asking _who even says something like ‘den of iniquity’_ , but he bites his own tongue and takes a sip from his whiskey.

“The good kind,” he replies when he’s done. “There’s everything for all tastes. Told you, my boss doesn’t do things halfway. So, you see anyone you like?”

Castiel glances around and goes back to staring down at his beer instead of giving him an answer, then he moves closer to the wall and takes off the mask.

“Fuck, sorry,” Dean says as soon as he realizes that drinking from a beer glass with that kind of injury and a mask on can’t be easy. “I should have got you something else.”

Castiel shakes his head and drinks half of the glass in one go, then puts on the mask again. “It’s no problem. It’s kind enough of you that you bought it at all.”

Suddenly, the idea of picking a random whore and send Castiel off with her seems wrong. For a moment Dean wishes he had paid attention to his surroundings while being here – at least he could have picked a not-so-random girl. He looks at the main hall, then at Castiel again. He’s staring at the rest of his beer, the rifle laid next to him on the seat. One of his hands is under the table; Dean could bet money that it’s shaking. He only knows because he has used that same trick for a while whenever his fingers felt the urge to tremble. He looks like a fish out of water and Dean can’t bring himself to raise a hand and call for any of the girls around. None of them looks good enough.

Dean wishes he knew why he even cares.

“So, you really sure you don’t see anyone that you like?”

“Dean, I think that you fail to see what the real matter is.”

“And what would it be?”

“The point isn’t whether I like anyone. It’s whether someone likes me.”

Dean nods and figures that he can take care of it, then. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do then. If you need to find me after, I’m in room 58.”

He stands up, goes to the bar. He doesn’t like the girl tending to it at all – the only thing he gathered about her is that she’s named Meg and that she isn’t above finding ways to gain extra money without the owner knowing. He tells her that he has a friend sitting at booth ten and that there’s the need for someone with a strong stomach or good acting skills, and if she can please take care of it and put it on Dean’s bill.

She gives him a sly smile and says that of course, she’ll take care of it.

Dean goes upstairs without even answering.

\--

He’s tossing and turning on his bed, unable to sleep. It’s not any news. He hasn’t slept decently as a general rule since he came back from Europe, and whenever he has something on his mind it’s even worse. Now that he has to worry about keeping his job it’s a lost cause. He grabs for his bag, seeing if he has something to read more decent than _The Tin Soldier and Other Stories_ , but the other three he had brought were all finished on the train ride. Obviously, since he hadn’t slept on the train either and they all were short. He groans and turns again on the bed, and then the door opens.

“Can I come in?”

“Castiel? You done already?” Dean takes a better look at him – he isn’t wearing his coat and the first button on his shirt is open, but that’s it.

“It… hm, it did not work out,” Castiel says, his voice carefully even. “But thank you nonetheless. It was a nice thought. I only wanted to thank you before I leave.”

“You’re – oh. Listen, there are two beds in here – you sure you don’t want to spend the night here? ‘s late already, you might as well.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks, taking a step inside.

“’Course. I can’t sleep anyway, might as well have some company. If you wanna take that mask off just do it – it must be fucking itching.”

Castiel goes to the other side of the room, placing his bag on a desk in the corner. He takes the mask off and then goes to sit on the bed. Dean keeps his eyes on him before grabbing the godforsaken book again.

“You like reading.” It’s not a question.

“Novels and stuff. Helps me pass the time. This one is crap though. Fairytales shouldn’t be so damn depressing.”

Castiel nods and leans down over his bag. Then he hands Dean three novels.

“You can take these, if you want.”

Dean flips through the books – Mark Twain’s _A Horse’s Tale_ , Ambrose Bierce’s _The Devil’s Dictionary_ , Edgar Lee Master’s _Spoon River Anthology_ ; he hasn’t read any of those three yet. He turns towards Castiel, and evidently he looks as if he’s demanding some explanation, since Castiel provides one before he can ask.

“I used to read a lot. That’s why my sister keeps on sending them to me.”

“Why, you don’t do it anymore?”

“It’s a long story.”

Obviously he doesn’t want to talk about it; fine. Dean can only respect it. It’s not as if he dies to share his experiences in the war to anyone – most of all Sam, who keeps on trying to make Dean talk about it every time they meet.

Dean loves his brother, more than anything, but one thing he knows is that he can’t talk about it to anyone who hasn’t been there. You can’t get it otherwise.

“Thanks then. I’ll keep ‘em for the ride back.”

Castiel lies down on the bed, turns on his right side and stays fully clothed on the covers, his shoes not far. Dean hasn’t slept like that for the last year or so, but he remembers the first six months after he came back well enough.

He turns off the light and tries to sleep.

\--

He wakes up after barely four hours of sleep in total, which isn’t even a bad thing. There are nights where he gets nightmares and nights where he wakes up as soon as he starts dreaming at all. This was one of the latter kind, which means he woke up about five times from the moment he shut off the light, but it’s still better than the alternative.

Castiel is already up, his clothing just barely wrinkled; you wouldn’t know that he slept in it.

“Hi,” Dean mutters as he drags himself to a sitting position.

“You slept badly.”

“Huh. How do you know?”

“I heard you. Don’t worry – it was because I couldn’t sleep myself.”

 _What a pair_ , Dean thinks. “So, you had any plans for today?”

“Do you?”

“Well, apart from having to find a way to keep my job, none.”

Castiel sits back on the bed, mask in hand. He doesn’t put it on, though. Dean can’t help glancing at him once in a while – he doesn’t know whether it’s rude or not (it should be), but for some reason he can’t help staring at the mess on the left side of Castiel’s face. It’s all still raw even if the war has been over for three years – not that with an eye completely blown out of the socket you can expect any less.

“What’s your problem exactly?”

“I can only tell you if you promise to keep your mouth shut. I dunno if it was plain or not, but what I do ain’t exactly legal.”

“I had understood that, yes. And believe me, I _can_ keep a secret.”

“Well, my boss is into… providing most of the state of Kansas with the alcohol it can’t sell legally. And apparently he got good at it since he’s the go-to guy, but he needs other people to give it to him. I was supposed to convince this guy who works here to give my boss a percentage, but he isn’t being very receptive.”

Castiel nods once, clears his throat. “Why isn’t he?”

“He doesn’t sell to foreign people. My boss wasn’t sadly born on American soil,” Dean snorts, wishing he had remembered to buy a bottle downstairs. It might be nine in the morning, but just _thinking_ about this mess makes him crave a glass of vodka.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I gotta meet this other guy who works for him today, but I doubt that it’s gonna work. I couldn’t convince the big guy himself, nothing’s gonna sway him.”

Castiel nods another time, looking thoughtful, then turns towards Dean again. “I have the impression that your person doesn’t take you seriously. Or your boss, for that matter.”

“Well, he ain’t no Rothstein, but apparently we’re not important enough on the big scale.”

“What if you showed him that you can be fairly dangerous?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this person you have to meet important?”

“I think he’s number four or five in the entire organization. Why?”

Castiel eyes his rifle on the desk, then looks back at Dean, then back at the rifle.

“You mean – you would – woah,” Dean blurts, and maybe he should be scared that the right side of Castiel’s face isn’t betraying a single emotion. “Are you serious?”

“The man that rifle belonged to… I shot him right under his eye, and he was thirty feet from me.”

Dean thinks about the proposal one second. No one told him not to intimidate Walker, or try to, and all things considered maybe scaring him into accepting the proposal the way Castiel is suggesting could work.

It wouldn’t even be the first time he kills someone because of Crowley’s business.

“You would do it? Why? Just like this?”

“Dean, I haven’t been able to – to _feel_ a thing since I was back. Mostly. The second I set foot back home, I felt disconnected. I don’t really talk to people. I can’t because everywhere I look no one seems to understand. Not that my condition helped me. I don’t know this man and to be sincere I don’t care about him at all. But – you are… different. Somewhat. If it helps you, I can do it. You only have to ask.”

Castiel has to clear his throat three times during that speech, and Dean thinks _this isn’t fair. This pins it all on me_. Then again, it’s _his_ job, isn’t it? He has always thought that he was a better person than this, that he wouldn’t kill someone just for his own sake (his country’s was another story, but after shooting in the face people younger than him who looked as terrified as he felt he might have his doubts about that, too). Still, it means that if it works he keeps his job. If he keeps his job he can help Sam get that good life he always dreamed of. If he keeps his job he can spare something for Lisa, who keeps on saying he shouldn’t. But when someone you only dated for two weeks accepts to have you in her house after the war is over for six months, you owe them forever. Not to mention that Dean knocked on her door just to find out that her kid’s father had left her for someone else (they were never married) with a six-year old and not much money.

Dean asks.

Castiel nods, puts his mask on, grabs the rifle and asks Dean where the appointment is.

\--

“Winchester, what the hell did you do?”

Dean leans against the phone booth’s side, takes a breath. Obviously Crowley knows already.

“I had to convince him somewhat.”

“Oh, sure, and you also paid someone to shoot Walker’s associate from the building in front of the bar you were in?”

“I didn’t pay them. It’s a long story. Actually, I was wondering if you’d be interested in hiring them.” Dean knows that he’s pushing this, but he knows perfectly what Castiel means when he says that he only knows how to kill.

“Hiring – bloody hell, I’d _fire_ you, if only Walker didn’t call me saying that he accepted for whichever price I wanted if it meant that I was going to kill people. Didn’t I tell you that sometimes you should do things with some style?”

“You can’t have it all. So, you’re gonna talk to him at least?”

“Well, guess I could. I also assume that you haven’t taken that test.”

“What do you think the result would be?”

Crowley sighs twice. Dean can see him rolling his eyes and worrying his very expensive tie as he sits behind that ridiculously big desk.

“Fine, fine, bring your mate here, we’ll sort it out. Take the first train you find.”

The receiver is slammed in his face again and Dean figures that it went well.

\--

“Are you sure?”

“Why not? I mean, you said it. If killing people’s what we do, and none of us is ever gonna find a decent job, you might as well talk to him.”

Castiel stops walking, stares at him. The faint light from the bar they just left makes his mask look silver. “You didn’t have to.”

“Let’s say I wanted to.” Castiel is staring at him still, and Dean should feel unnerved. He doesn’t like talking about the reasons why he does things. But the way Castiel looks at him, it makes him feel naked. He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or not, especially since in comparison to Castiel, _he_ seems well-adjusted. (Or at least, he’d have never offered to kill a man to someone he had known for less than a day.)

“Very well. I will come with you.” Castiel’s voice is barely audible, a low rasp almost lost in the night breeze. Dean shivers, and it isn’t the bad kind of shivering.

\--

“He says he wants to talk to you.” Castiel doesn’t provide more details.

Dean wonders how bad it went, if Crowley wants to talk to him.

He walks inside the room and sits down on the chair in front of Crowley’s desk – he knows that Crowley hates it when you look down at him. Crowley is smoking a cigarette and he’s staring at him as if he was the most annoying thing in the world. Dean can’t help noticing that he’s wearing a new black silk shirt. Obviously there hasn’t been lack of money around here.

“So?”

“He didn’t take the test either.” Not a question.

“How did you figure that one out?”

“No one in their right mind would shoot a person they don’t even know because _you_ asked them.”

“Hey, he offered first. And you always know how to make a man feel good about himself.”

“Shut up, Winchester. The way he said it was bloody scaring me. The problem is that I could actually use him.”

“And it isn’t a good thing?”

“When you talk to someone as emotionless as _him_ , and who’s been to war with your lot, I’m not so sure that it is. Then again, I think I have the perfect solution.”

“Like?”

“Well, since the one reason he’s here is that he obviously likes you someway – or at least enough to do that – you two can work together. Which means that I’d have to upgrade you from dealing with whoever to dealing only with people that trouble me more than they should, but then again, I assume that maybe you’d like a bit more money for yourself, other than payments for your brother’s tuition. Am I right?”

Dean doesn’t even need to think about it – he knows that Crowley is perfectly right about all this. The only thing he’s wrong about is Castiel.

Dean still remembers his face when he proposed to buy him that damn whore.

Someone who can look at you with such gratitude isn’t emotionless, in spite of what Crowley thinks and in spite of what Castiel himself thinks.

Still, the only question is: _do I want to get my hands dirty full time?_

He’s sick of it.

But none of this is about him. If he says no, no one gains anything. If he says yes, his brother can have things Dean has stopped dreaming about (a good life, a nice family, a stable job – but Sam was meant to have that and Dean has always acted so that Sam could get it), Lisa can buy Ben new clothes and Castiel can… well, at least make some decent money.

Being sick of it isn’t a good excuse.

“Fine. Whatever you want.”

\--

“Listen,” Dean says as they go back to his car, “for the first couple nights you could stay at my place – it’s big enough. At least Crowley had the decency to find me an apartment. But I have to say hi to someone else first – you mind waiting in the car for five minutes?”

“Not at all.”

There’s nothing else, and Dean doesn’t add anything to the conversation.

\--

To be entirely honest, Dean hadn’t expected Lisa to slap him in the face the second she opened the door. Or to hug him on her porch the second after before dragging him in.

“Lisa, what –”

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in a month. One would think you’d call, at least.”

Point taken. If only she knew – thankfully she doesn’t. Or well, she knows some of it, but as far as Lisa is concerned, he only helps smuggling alcohol directly to the bars. And Lisa never thought much of banning alcohol, which is why she thinks it’s not so terrible that he’s not into any legal business.

“Sorry, I had to take care of things and I couldn’t find the time. How’s Ben?”

“Sleeping over at some friend’s, but he’s doing good. He also misses you – try to come round more often, okay?”

Dean nods as he reaches inside his pocket, feeling for an envelope with the part he had set aside for them. He still doesn’t get how Ben likes him at all – if he had been six and some guy who could barely sleep three hours without screaming himself raw, a half-busted knee and no income had suddenly taken residence on the house’s couch, he wouldn’t have been as enthusiastic as that kid had been. Dean has wished more than once that he and Lisa had lasted more than one month and that Ben could be his, but that’s not how it went and maybe it’s better like this.

He hands Lisa the envelope. She looks inside, then promptly tries to give it back.

“Dean, I told you –”

“And I told you every other time that I don’t care. When I asked you if I could stay, it was only trouble to you and you said yes anyway. And if you hadn’t, I don’t know where I’d be right now so – just take it, okay? I know you can use it. Please?”

Lisa looks as if she’ll try to argue for a second, but then she raises her hands and tucks the envelope into a pocket on her shirt.

“Fine. You know that I don’t like it, but you’re right. Listen, try to drop by soon?”

“Sure. I have to go now. Say hi to Ben from me.”

“You can do that yourself.”

She accompanies him to the door and kisses him on the cheek before he leaves. Dean on one side wishes she wouldn’t do it where other people can see, she already has enough problems with raising a kid on her own, but on the other, he sort of likes it. It’s nice to know that there’s one person near you that gives a shit about your well-being. Sure, Sam does too, but Sam is in Jersey. Dean should call at some point – he’ll do it one of these days.

“Are you… involved?” Castiel asks ten minutes later, as Dean drives home. His tone is carefully blank as usual.

“Me and – no. We used to, but it really wasn’t much. We went out a couple of times but then I told her that I was planning to enlist and it ended there. Then when I came back – well, I wasn’t in a good shape and my dad forbid me to come home until I had sorted myself out. My brother argued with him for days after that, but whatever. I asked her and she took me in for six months. Now I try to help her – she has a kid but her husband just went and disappeared one day and left them both. But we’re just friends.”

“You’re a good man,” Castiel replies, and Dean thinks that it’s completely inconsequent.

“What? Please. I’m nowhere near –”

“I don’t know many people who would do that. Or who would do something they obviously hate just in order to make the ones they love happy.”

“How do you know –”

“Dean, please. It’s obvious. When I told you that I would kill that man if it could benefit you, it took you five minutes to answer me. If you really liked doing what you did, you wouldn’t have thought about it twice.”

“That doesn’t make me a good person.”

“It makes you a better person than you think.”

It’s pathetic that for a second Dean’s heart skips a beat.

No one has ever told him something like that. Not since he left for Europe.

\--

There’s blood on his shirt.

He tries to wash it in the sink. He liked it enough – he doesn’t want to throw it away or burn it, but he’s sure that it’s a lost cause.

It’s not his blood. It belongs to some guy he has never met in his life. The only things he knows about him are that his name was Brady and he had tried to steal some of Crowley’s precious alcohol in order to sell it himself later.

Next time he’s not going to shoot someone in the heart if he has to – he had missed the shot, Castiel had to finish the job and it ended with blood all over their clothes.

He scrubs harder, his nails digging into the bar of soap. He sees blood flowing down the drain and sticking on his fingers, and then it _changes_ – he isn’t in his bathroom anymore. There’s stench of death all around him, he has just shot a German kid in the head (he was younger than him, Christ, maybe two years older than Sam) and his hands are trying to stay still but they _can’t_ , and –

“Dean.”

There’s a hand gripping his shoulder, so strong that Dean almost screams, and then he’s in front of the mirror again. The water is running, the shirt is always stained, he has curled one of his hands in a fist so hard that he has broken skin, and Castiel’s good eye is looking at him in… concern?

Crowley can joke about Castiel’s lack of facial expressions as much as he wants – it just takes looking at him in the eyes to see that it’s not true.

“Shit. I just – I wasn’t –”

“You weren’t here.” Castiel’s voice is quiet, understanding. Barely audible. “Go back to the living room.”

Dean lets the shirt be and goes– Castiel closes the water and a minute later he’s cleaning away blood from his fingers and disinfecting the lower part of his palm. Dean is secretly thankful that Castiel hasn’t moved out even if one month has passed since he started working for Crowley; this doesn’t happen often, but when it happens, it’s good to have around someone who _gets_ it but seems unaffected.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How do you – I mean, I’ve never seen you getting this kind of thing. Is there – do you do something to avoid it?”

The visible corner of Castiel’s mouth curls up, but his good eye doesn’t smile. Dean wishes he took the damn mask off at least in the house, but for some reason he never does.

“It’s different. This happens to you when you go back there. I’m always there, Dean. I… hm, only learned to deal with it.”

Dean can’t help thinking that they’re all different and the same, and he can’t understand if he got it good or not. If learning to deal with it means showing that you’re capable of feelings just once in a while, maybe he _did_ have it good. It’s not as if he’s this great sharer – his technique has always been try to bury it down and not to think about it, same as Castiel, but he obviously never mastered it well.

The two of them are a mess, no doubts. Dean still doesn’t know who’s the worst one.

\--

“You know,” Dean tells Cas as they go back to the car. “It’s been three months and I still haven’t understood something. What’s in this for you?”

It’s so very dark – it has to be three in the morning – and there’s only moonlight. When Castiel takes off the mask, you can barely see the left side of his face at all.

“My father is a preacher. I grew up believing a lot of things that I don’t believe in now.” He clears his throat. “One was that good things happen to good people. No God is that kind of cruel. Not the one I believed in. Then I went to war.”

Dean waits for more, but Castiel stays silent.

“And?”

“I answered you already.”

Dean doesn’t understand it, but he lets it go. He grabs his packet of cigarettes, lights one – he doesn’t smoke often, but sometimes he needs it just to concentrate about something easy (take a drag, exhale, inhale, take another drag, exhale). He doesn’t offer Castiel one – the first time he tried, Castiel refused saying he couldn’t technically do it.

“You know what, Cas? Sometimes I don’t get you at all, but then again it’s not as if I get myself.”

“How did you call me?”

“I – uh. I didn’t even realize I did it. Sorry, if it’s –”

“I like it.”

Nothing else, but if Dean isn’t wrong, he thinks that the corner of Castiel’s mouth curled up in a small smile. But he could be wrong. Moonlight can be deceiving.

\--

He’s heading home when he drives in front of a cinema. He glances at the title of whatever’s showing – he only reads _Lon Chaney_ at the top of the billed actors, along with yesterday’s date. He realizes that it’s been ages since he’s done something as mundane as going to the movies. He looks at his knuckles – he washed his hands before leaving the umpteenth warehouse, but he still sees red all over them.

“Hey,” he says, stopping the car at the other side of the road. “I was wondering, wanna see a movie instead of going home straight? There’s some new Lon Chaney one just out and I haven’t been to the cinema in ages.”

“I don’t know who he is, but if you want to go, of course.”

“You don’t know – well, then it’s never too late to learn.” With Castiel, you find out that he could quote the Bible or _Paradise Lost_ by heart but that he has no idea of why famous movie stars are famous, or about more recent literature (Dean had said something about Sherlock Holmes once and the only answer had been confused staring). By now, Dean has just learned to go with it.

“Why not? I haven’t been to a movie in years, too. It might be interesting.”

“For the same reason you don’t do books anymore?” Dean asks as he parks the car. Castiel shakes his head and waits for him when he gets out of the car.

“Dean, it’s fiction. In fiction… when it ends badly, people still care about each other, and when it doesn’t, it’s implied that they can be happy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I learned that it isn’t quite so,” Castiel replies, and Dean has no idea of what to answer to that. He reads so much because of the opposite reason – he likes to think that _somewhere_ people can be happy, even if it’s just fiction; and he also knows that Castiel feels a lot more things than he lets on. For now, he lets that go and heads towards the theater.

\--

Lisa invites them both to dinner some three months later. Castiel doesn’t talk much and cuts his steak into ridiculously small pieces – then again he couldn’t eat them otherwise – and Dean doesn’t mind that it’s him, Lisa and Ben doing most of the talking. There’s something in the way Castiel’s shoulders relax and in the way he talks when he chooses to that makes Dean think he isn’t doing bad.

For someone who has broken a guy’s arm and sent him to an hospital for a warning six hours before. (Dean had broken the other.)

“Do you ever think… about going back with her?” Castiel asks on the car, the tone still carefully even, his eyes fixed on Dean’s.

Dean wishes he hadn’t gotten so used to it, but he barely notices by this point.

“Nah. ‘S already hard enough to hide what I really do from her or my brother like this. And it wouldn’t have worked. I mean, we liked each other, but that was it. And she doesn’t need me to be a burden permanently.”

“I don’t think she’s of the same opinion.”

“Cas, if she ever finds a nice guy with a good, honest job that can make her happy, she’ll be better off than she’d ever be with me. I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t think I ever was.”

“But don’t you ever want it?” Castiel pushes. Dean wishes he knew what’s the matter.

“I might’ve thought about it once or twice, maybe, but does it even matter?”

“Why does it never matter when your well-being is at stake?”

Dean wishes he could tell Castiel to just quit it – it’s not something he likes to think about. He hasn’t done anything for _his_ particular own well-being since his mother died in a fire when he was four and brought the best part of his father with her. (Not that Dean resents him or anything, but something important in John Winchester died the moment Mary Winchester née Campbell did and that’s facts. He never was the same after.) He doesn’t regret having practically raised his brother and putting Sam’s needs before his own, but he doesn’t like to think about what he wants from life either. Mostly because he’s sure that if he ever thought about it, the answer would be _not what you’re doing right now._

“Cas, me sucking it up means that at least four people in the world do good. That’s enough for me.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything else, but Dean can feel that lone, bright eye looking at him and he knows that Castiel knows that it was an answer full of shit.

He drives back home.

\--

Sometimes he’s afraid that one day he’ll just shut everything out.

It’s a thought that shouldn’t really occur while he’s hiding behind a tree and cars are crowding in front of the barn where he and Cas did their last job half an hour ago. This time it had only to be a warning – which implied shattering the guy’s knee. Dean can feel his fingers pulling the trigger. He shivers, and his stomach turns on itself. He wants to vomit.

He wonders how long it’s going to last.

“You won’t do it,” Castiel says, and Dean realizes he has just spoken aloud.

“What –”

“You won’t. You can’t.”

“And how do you know?”

“Caring for other people is your first instinct. Why else would you even have offered to pay me a whore after talking to me for five minutes?” For a second Castiel sounds almost amused. “Dean, you can’t change who you are. I wish I was like you, sometimes.”

Sometimes Dean also thinks that Castiel has it easier, but maybe not.

“Why? Being me can’t be a great thing.”

“You just don’t see yourself the right way,” Castiel answers, and Dean recognizes the tone. It means that this conversation is over. Still, the one thing Dean sees when he looks in the mirror is that he’s not even thirty yet and the only good thing he’d leave behind if he was to die tomorrow would be Sam.

\--

“Are you sure that you can’t come for spring break?”

Dean takes a breath, wishing he could tell Sam that he’ll come for sure. But on Sam’s spring break he has to go to Chicago in order to get Crowley a new deal with some other crook snuggling alcohol in there and since when Dean has days off?

“Sam, I wish I could, but I’m having problems with work here and I’m not really sure that I’ll have time. I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Fine. But Dean, do you realize that the last time I saw you was eight months ago?”

Dean knows. He knows even too fucking well.

“I know. I’ll try, okay?”

“You’d better.”

When he walks back into the house, he drops down on the couch, putting his head in his hands.

“I take it didn’t go well,” Castiel says from behind him, and Dean almost shouts.

“Fuck, I didn’t hear you at all, how do you – never mind. Nah, it went fine, but I told him I’d try to get there next week.”

“You know,” Castiel says as he sits next to Dean, “I could go alone.”

He’s not wearing the mask in the house lately and Dean is thankful for it. That thing might make normal people feel more at ease, but Dean just hates it and how inexpressive it is.

“You sure? I wouldn’t want to –”

“Dean, I know my way around. And considering the reputation our boss is growing, they will probably say yes to me without even letting me finish the question.”

“Yeah, and he never got a speck of blood on his own hands.” Dean can feel the venom in his own voice, but there’s no point in hiding it.

“At some point he will have to. I sincerely hope your brother graduates first, though.”

Dean can’t help himself – he _does_ laugh a bit. “Thanks. If you can do it yourself – I mean, then I’m going to California. If it’s okay.”

“Of course. Go see your brother, you deserve it.”

Dean doesn’t think that he deserves much, but he doesn’t argue with it.

He takes a train the next day and the face Sam makes when Dean knocks on his dorm room makes him feel that maybe selling his soul to Crowley one piece at a time is really worth it after all.

\--

He comes back home one week and a half later and Castiel isn’t back yet. There isn’t any angry message from Crowley in the mail or on the table, so he can assume that everything went fine. Good. He unpacks, opens the window to change stale air in the living room and in his own, and then he figures he could do it in Castiel’s as well. He never goes into his room, which used to be the storeroom but that Castiel keeps on saying is perfectly good to sleep in; then again, he wouldn’t look at anything. He’d just open the window and be done.

He does that, and he’s about to get out when a book that was precariously placed falls down from the desk when Dean passes next to it and knocks it down with his wrist.

Which is when Dean realizes that it’s the only thing around. The room is exactly as he left it the last time he walked inside it – the walls are bare, there isn’t a book or photograph or anything on the room’s only desk. There’s just that book. Which fell open. Dean figures that he’ll just grab it, close it and put it back where it was, but as he does it, his eye catches the content and he can’t help looking at it instead of trying to forget it.

It’s made of cut-outs from magazines, and he can only recognize movie posters (which is perplexing, since Castiel has never been to the cinema since they know each other, except when Dean drags him along). But on all of those posters, there’s a couple. Kissing, holding each other, next to each other, holding hands. Some are a man and a woman, some are two men or two women that are obviously close friends. The constant is that those people are supposed to care for each other, or at least Dean thinks so, and before he can make something out of it he looks up and Castiel is leaning against the door.

“Shit, when did you come in?”

“Five minutes ago.” Castiel doesn’t sound angry, at least. Merely… resigned?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I got in to open the window, I bumped into it and it fell open on the floor.”

“Don’t worry. I saw it all. I can’t exactly blame you.”

Dean closes it, hands it back. He’s thinking about Castiel asking why he doesn’t even try to get back together with Lisa, for instance.

“Listen, if you want to –”

“You don’t need to concern yourself. I just like to fool myself sometimes.”

“Fool yourself about what?”

“Dean, I’m not made for _that_. It’s nice to think that I might be, once in a while, but that’s all there is.”

“Cas –”

“I told you, I left home because no one would look at me in the face. I think you’re the only person who ever did it in the last four years. You can’t change facts.”

“Take it off.”

“What?”

“Take it off. The mask. Just do it.”

Castiel doesn’t look exactly convinced, but he does it. It falls on the bed, along with the book. Dean takes a breath, comes closer, meets Castiel’s eye and doesn’t look elsewhere.

“It’s not as if I’ve become friends with anyone else during the last four years,” Dean says when they’re so close that if either of them moved they’d touch. “Or as if I had time for friends when I grew up. Fuck, it’s not as if I’m much better off than you, except for – well. I’m not perfect. Me and Lisa wouldn’t be if we were together, even if you think that we could be. Don’t lie to me, I know you think that.”

“You don’t get it,” Castiel replies, and then before Dean can say anything there are lips pressing against his, half soft and warm and half ruined and rough, and before Dean can even think about it, Cas jerks back and doesn’t manage to run out of the room just because Dean has good reflexes and has caught his wrist.

“I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“No, you meant it.” Dean knows that he meant it, no one does something like that if they don’t.

“Fine, I meant it. So you could let me leave, since –”

“Cas, shut the fuck up. Let me think.”

Castiel’s good eye widens in surprise and Dean breathes once, twice, and thinks.

He only goes as far as _I liked it_ before he pushes Cas against the closed door and kisses him again.

It’s weird at first, because he isn’t used to a mouth that only kisses back halfway, but when Castiel’s tongue meets his it just _works_. It’s not the kind of kiss that hurts – Dean is trying to hold back in case he really ends up doing some damage – but the way Castiel’s tongue moves slowly against his as he kisses back and his hands reach up for Dean’s nape and for his temple makes Dean feel warm in a way he hasn’t felt in years. He reaches up with his right hand; the scar tissue on Castiel’s cheek feels rough and he only touches gingerly, but then Castiel moans into his mouth and before Dean knows it they fall on the bed, Castiel on top of him and their mouths barely inches from each other. When he looks up, Castiel’s good eye looks wider than usual, surprise and bewilderment and fondness and nervousness showing in it all at once. One of his hands is still on Dean’s cheek and his fingers are shaking.

“Dean?”

“I wanted to,” Dean answers, his voice quieter than usual. He reaches up, smoothing a strand of hair away from Cas’s forehead. “I hadn’t known that I wanted it, but I did. I do.”

Castiel’s hand stills. “Do you remember when you brought me to the den of iniquity and I told you that it didn’t work?”

“You weren’t interested?”

“I was. In someone else. When I told you that I could shoot that man for you… our employer thinks that it means that I’m completely insane, but do you really think that I would offer such a thing so freely?”

His voice is barely audible by now, and Dean barely manages to speak past the knot in his throat. “And why do you think I never asked you to find your own place? I like having you around, you know.” Dean has made peace with it – as weird as Castiel can get and as scary as he is sometimes when he seems completely detached from the rest of the world, he hasn’t been so comfortable around people other than Sam in ages.

“Once you asked me what was in this business for me. Do you remember what I answered you?”

“You used to believe that good things do happen to good people?”

“Dean, I haven’t done a thing all my life that I think makes me a good person, but meeting you was the only good thing that happened to me in years. I’m in this business because you are. It’s… it’s all for you.”

It hits Dean like a punch to the gut. He had always thought that Cas was in it for maybe getting some money and starts a decent life for himself, not that –

“I’m not worth it.”

“Why not?” It sounds so easy. Dean would like to answer, but then Castiel’s lips cover his again, once, tentatively, and he kisses back without thinking too much about it. He isn’t even sure he can come up with that answer now. But when it’s over, he tries.

“You shouldn’t – Cas, dammit, I do this because I have no choice, but you don’t _have_ to.”

“If we had been in the same unit, would you have fought for me?” Castiel’s voice is all scrape and effort. Dean doesn’t even have to think about it.

“’Course I’d have, what kind of question –”

“Don’t you see it then? I’d have done the same for you. That’s what we are doing now. Yes, I have to. If you want me to.”

Dean can’t possibly say anything else, not when Castiel is looking at him as if he really is the best thing that had ever happened to the world, and so he reaches up with his hands and drags Castiel’s head down again. He kisses the burned side of his mouth as Castiel’s fingers tangle in his hair again. His arm goes around Castiel’s waist as Castiel pushes him forward; they fall on the bed, Castiel on top of him. They’re still kissing when Castiel moans into his mouth, his hardening cock pressed against Dean’s leg, and Dean’s trousers are already becoming too tight.

Time to take care of that.

“Clothes. Off,” he manages when the kiss breaks; Castiel gives him a curt nod and moves away from the bed. His fingers shake slightly but he gets rid of shirt and jacket quickly enough, and Dean concentrates on doing the same instead of staring – he can do that later. Their belts both clash to the ground; Dean kicks off his shoes and gets rid of the trousers before he can ruin one of his two good pairs; and then Castiel is kissing him again. Dean is itching to make it deeper, but he isn’t sure about just taking Castiel’s face between his hands and bringing it down – he’s sure that it would hurt like hell, in spite of what Castiel says.

“Hey,” he manages when Castiel breaks it off for air, “do you – I mean, really, if I touch you there, does it hurt you?”

Castiel breathes in, then shrugs. “Not really. I mean, it used to, but now… it isn’t painful. I can feel pressure over there, but that’s it.”

“Okay,” Dean whispers back before flipping them over. Thankfully the bed isn’t too narrow – it’s still made for one person, but he doesn’t risk falling off if he isn’t careful. He looks down, taking a good look at Castiel’s frame. There’s a bullet wound on his hip, but it’s the worst of it. He feels Castiel’s hand as it traces a knife wound that he got at some point in his first two weeks – it goes from Dean’s hip to his nipple, not that he got away with that one. His chest is all cuts and scars from bullet wounds, but overall he got it good – he can always hide them, can’t he?

“I was thinking…” Dean clears his voice as Castiel’s thumb stops running over a cut on his shoulder. “There are things I’d do to you that I could’ve arranged, but I think that for now I have an idea.”

“Meaning?” Castiel’s voice is hoarse, but it doesn’t fail to make Dean shiver.

“Meaning… just lay back. I got this,” Dean answers before leaning back and pressing a kiss in the hollow of Castiel’s neck. He moves down, going from neck to shoulder to hip; Castiel stays still at first, but then his fingers brush against Dean’s neck the second Dean licks a stripe just above his groin. Castiel still has his trousers on, even if they’re not buttoned; Dean pushes them down and out of the way. Then he decides that maybe it’s better if he’s kneeling on the ground and Castiel is sitting, so he goes down and waits until Castiel sits up before turning his stare on Castiel’s cock again.

He’s hard, though not as much as he could be; Dean breathes in, thinks about all the times girls have done the same to him – can’t be that hard, can it? – and then moves back a bit. His lips touch the head of Castiel’s cock, and he almost flinches back when Castiel lets out a low, rough moan and jerks his hips upwards. But he has better control than that, and apparently he’s doing good, so he goes down again and takes the tip into his mouth, putting his hands over Castiel’s hips at the same time. Good thinking, because like this he’s expecting it when they jerk up again and he can take a bit more. It feels _weird_ , feeling Castiel harden with every motion of Dean’s tongue (and even more when Dean starts moving his head), but it’s not as bad as one might have thought – the taste isn’t weird, he has kissed more than his fair share of girls just after they gave him head. If he looks up, he can see sweat on Castiel’s forehead and when Castiel’s one good eye opens and looks down at Dean, it’s mostly blown pupil with just a sliver of blue, and he has no right to look this – this – the only word he can find is happy, but that doesn’t cover it entirely.

“ _Dean_ ,” he whispers a handful of second later, after Dean starts to tentatively suck while trying to take him in a bit more. “Dean, don’t – I will – I’m –”

Dean understands at once – Castiel has to be close, especially if Dean is the first person he’s doing this with; Dean is tasting pre-come on the back of his throat as he makes his pace just a bit faster. He’s doing this, he’s doing this _right_ – he doesn’t mind the taste and for fuck’s sake, he won’t die if he swallows.

He closes his eyes, concentrates on where to put his tongue and on the fact that he fucking likes that Castiel’s cock is almost throbbing inside his mouth and that he’s moaning because of what Dean is doing. Fuck, Dean hates that his job is made of mostly pain, and this is the first time in years that he has made someone feel good rather than the contrary; if the part of him that was taught that you just don’t _do_ this wants to talk, he won’t listen to it.

Not to mention that his own dick is becoming painfully hard, and gets harder whenever he glances up at Castiel’s face.

He slows down for a second when Castiel’s hands reach down to his head, and he expects to be pushed but it doesn’t happen; Castiel does tug then, and Dean just picks up his pace again and ignores it.

It’s done in seconds, after that; Castiel stills for a moment, then he moans again, deeper, rougher; his hips jerk forward, again, and he says Dean with a tone that makes Dean shiver as his toes curl, and then he comes so hard that while Dean had wanted to stay where he was, he has to move his head away coughing because he hadn’t been expecting it. He curses mentally before sitting on the bed and closing his hand around Castiel’s cock, stroking it through it, his mouth finding Castiel’s and kissing him right before he moans again. It’s intoxicating, he thinks as his free hand runs over Castiel’s good cheek and his right one stays on Castiel’s cock as he rides it out, and he hasn’t felt this good while having sex in years.

When they part, he’s breathing heavily, and Castiel is, too; his eyes are closed, the part of his lips that isn’t scarred is the red of ripe strawberries and deliciously kiss-swollen, and Dean can’t help thinking that he looks gorgeous, left side of his face or not. He doesn’t say it though. He has unlearned to say that kind of shit to anyone.

Then Castiel opens his good eye again, and it’s mostly blue again; Dean breathes in, wishing that he wasn’t at the receiving end of such a trusting stare. Everything screams at him that he doesn’t deserve anyone looking at him like this, but he can’t find anything to say right now.

Castiel does it for him, though. “You haven’t –” he starts, then glances down at Dean’s groin, then looks up at Dean again.

“Oh. Well, uh, if you don’t feel like doing more than this it’s fine, I don’t really –”

Dean doesn’t have time to finish that sentence – one moment he’s talking, the other Castiel has turned the cards over the table and moved on top of him so that Dean has his back against the bed and Castiel’s hands are on his wrists, keeping him pinned down.

“You need – to stop thinking – that your needs always come last,” Castiel says. There’s a strain to his voice that Dean figures is because he rarely hears Castiel make a sound unless he has to talk, and he _has_ moaned plenty until now. “Now, I cannot – I cannot repay that kind of favor, but I can – tell me what you want. _Please_.”

Dean feels almost dizzier now than before – of all the intense stares Castiel directed at him, not one was as intense as _this_. “Your hand,” he manages, realizing that he can’t put one sentence together. “It’ll be fine – just that.” He has thought about Castiel’s hands, he realizes when Castiel nods and leans back a bit; he has stared at those fingers while they put a gun together or cleaned it or scrubbed blood off floors or stitched Dean’s injuries when he needed it. But now – 

He doesn’t finish that thought because then Castiel licks the palm of his hand and then closes it around Dean’s cock, which by now has become painfully hard. He hears himself moan loud enough that a neighbor might have heard – he hopes not, but at the same time he doesn’t give a shit because it feels so good. He had been right – Castiel’s hands on him feel amazing. He’s giving him quick, efficient strokes but it doesn’t feel rushed, and his fingertips are as rough as Dean’s own; when Castiel’s thumb runs over the head of his leaking cock Dean can’t keep his voice in anymore (fuck the neighbors, really). He doesn’t even realize what he’s saying – surely _Cas_ and _yes_ and _fuck_ and _please_ and yes _like this just like this_ – but what does even matter? Castiel is driving him crazy, slowing down the pace and then picking it up again, his fingers still firmly wrapped around his length, and Dean has to move forward and try to kiss him. It doesn’t work as well as it should – at one particularly well-placed stroke Dean jerks forward and ends up with his mouth on Castiel’s cheek, but when their lips meet and Dean starts to feel pleasure building through his muscles he kisses Castiel as hard as he can, their tongues meeting, Castiel’s free hand burying itself in Dean’s hair. It doesn’t take much more for Dean to come – his entire body feels like a string ready to snap and he has been hard since he took Castiel’s cock into his mouth – when he does, he bites down on Castiel’s shoulder as Castiel’s hand strokes him through his entire orgasm the same way he did for Castiel before. When he comes, he feels a rush of blood to the head and he sees white spots in front of his eyes, and he shivers in pleasure as his hips jerk forward; those are good shivers though, the kind that makes you see starts when you close your eyes and leave you relaxed and pliant when you wake up. He doesn’t even register the time during which he comes out from his orgasm – one second he’s _coming_ , the other they’re lying down and Castiel is looking at him still.

And Dean doesn’t mind at all.

He should think about this, he should remember that whenever they touch they should leave bloody fingertips all over each other.

“Was it good then?” he manages when they’re lying under the covers, the rest of the apartment forgotten.

“You underestimate yourself,” Castiel answers, his eye winking at him for a second before he turns on the other side. He closes his eyes, and Dean does the same, and then a hand tentatively touches his hip.

Dean reaches up for Castiel’s shoulder, makes it turn over and throws an arm around his waist.

It’s the first night in ages during which he sleeps fine.

\--

The next morning, Dean wakes up at the crack of dawn after sleeping fairly decently. No dreams and six hours straight – not bad at all. He doesn’t move from the bed though, not until Castiel starts to stir. His good eye opens, and he blinks twice before trying to sit up. He clears his throat.

“Thank you.”

“Hey, I didn’t do this to make you a favor. I wanted it. No need for thanks.”

Castiel nods, glancing at both mask and book on the ground.

“Hey, leave that be. And for fuck’s sake please stop wearing that thing in the house. It creeps me out. With everything I’ve seen back then do you think that I mind?”

“You don’t. It’s everyone else.”

As if it isn’t Dean’s most recurring thought in the last years.

It only makes sense that they got here, doesn’t it?

\--

Cas is putting the rifle in his bag and Dean is buttoning his coat. He has a gun on him. He hopes he won’t have to use it, but he has no idea why Crowley has just called the both of them to his office, and he has no option but to take it along.

“You know,” he says before Cas opens the door, “I don’t – I never thought that this was me.”

“It isn’t you. It’s something you have to do. It might be me, but it isn’t you.”

Dean would like to know how can Cas sound so sure, but he doesn’t ask any further questions. His hand brushes against the small of Cas’s back as Cas unlocks the door, and then they’re out.

\--

There’s blood on his fingertips. No one died, but apparently someone in the local police who was supposed to snitch for Crowley hasn’t done the job in a satisfactory manner, and it meant giving them a warning.

Dean pictures two of the guy’s teeth landing on the ground. It was nothing – if only two loose teeth were the worst he’s seen, but the sound that his hand made when colliding with the guy’s mouth is there in his ears, and it’s sickening.

“Do you think you can drive?” he asks Cas before they get inside the car. “I’m gonna stain the wheel and we have to get out of here. He’s gonna call for help as soon as he’s able to.”

Cas holds out a hand and Dean hands him the keys. He drives for a while, not heading home directly; Dean keeps his bloodied hands in his lap and stares at the red stain on the shoulders of Cas’s coat.

When Cas stops some twenty or thirty miles from the warehouse, in the middle of nowhere, Dean is still staring at it.

Cas takes the mask off, putting it in the pocket of the trench.

“Are you ever sorry that I dragged you into this?”

Cas shakes his head in the dark and gets out of the car, moving into the backseat. Dean follows him and he gasps when Cas reaches out, covers one of his bloodied hands with his own. It’s dirty, and rough, but there was just skin before. His fingertips are stained in red.

“Where do you think I would have ended up eventually? If I had not decided to call it quits.”

Dean shivers for a second, but it’s gone as soon as it came. He has thought about calling it quits too, at times, but it never lasted much. He knew that at least two people would have missed him and it was enough to make him soldier on, but if he had been completely alone he isn’t so sure that it would have been a choice so easy to dismiss.

“Dean, if you think I ever regret the moment I accepted to work for him, you can forget it.”

“Well, I don’t regret having gone to take that test, either. You’re not the only one who thinks that maybe a good thing happened even if they didn’t deserve it.”

Cas’s lips are cracked on their good side, but they become soft in a moment; when Dean leans back, he realizes that he brought one of his hands to Cas’s cheek and there are a couple of faint, pink fingerprints on his cheekbone.

“Sorry. I forgot.”

He doesn’t expect Cas to grab that hand again and bringing it back where it was, but when it happens Dean doesn’t try to resist the pull.

“That’s the reason I say that you don’t have to worry.”

“’bout what?”

“About killing someone and not feeling one thing. You never could. Not until you have people around keeping you from going back.”

“Are you still there all of the time? You told me that, once.”

“It’s never going to go away. But right now? I’m here.”

When Cas’s face turns and his lips press against his palm, Dean should feel sick.

Instead, he thinks that if he died right now, maybe there’s one other small good thing he’d leave behind other than Sam. He doesn’t want to know what it says about him.

“D’you think we could stay here another five minutes?”

Cas gives him a nod – never one for wasting words he doesn’t need. Dean puts his forehead against Cas’s left temple, in the point where whole skin becomes scar tissue, and Cas’s hand keeps Dean’s against his cheek.

They stay like that for a long time.

End.


End file.
